Chocolate and Cigarettes
by Butterfly Heart
Summary: Francois Bonnefoy is on the way to work when he sees Alfred, a prostitute, and decides that he wants to draw him after a night spent together. Things go downhill from there as they slowly discover their feelings for each other.
1. Prologue

Hello everybody^^ This is the prologue of a new AU-story I am currently working on,I guess you all have read the summary, so I'm skipping that part :P

Disclaimer: I do not own anything, sadly.

Pairing(s): FrUS (mainly), MonacoxHungary, one-sided PruHun

Warnings: Slash, sex, some drugs and more than two idiots trying to find their fortune. Also, I'd like to state that English is not my native language, so whenever you find a grammar mistake, please tell me! :3

Have fun n_n

* * *

><p>Francois is on the way to his atelier when he sees him.<p>

Well, he is not really on his way to his atelier; he stopped by to greet one of his two best friends Gilbert in his club, pleased to meet his other best friend Antonio there too. Sitting on his bar stool, sipping a free drink- delicious as always; Gilbert mixes them himself and he is the best bar mixer in town- and looking around without a fix target- at least until he sees him.

He dances to a dirty dubstep, lost in the music and all sunny smile with shiny, sharp white teeth and bright, azure eyes behind thinly-framed glasses. Francois catches a glimpse of golden, wild hair with a stubborn cowlick and knows that he wants him, desire settling deep and heavy in his belly.

/

"I don't kiss on the lips," Alfred-which is the name of his beautiful stranger, he learns- tells him smoothly and already loosens Francois' tie with quick, strong fingers, his smile dazzling and wide. "Anything else- go wild. Be careful of the glasses though, will ya? Nice, thanks. Let's get it started then, huh?"

He is American and Francois is stricken, fascinated by this man who kneels down in one quick motion on the dusty floor beneath them, opens Francois' trousers while chatting amicably and painfully superficial. Then he stops talking and bends forward to wrap his lips around Francois' cock, taking him in without hesitation, warm, broad hands resting on his hips and Francois watches him, trembling and burning and he knows that he wants more than this, knows that he _needs_more than this and even though he doesn't need a prostitute to get pleasured, never did, he finds himself saying "Come with me in the hotel on the corner of the street" when he's flushed and satisfied, his knees weak in the afterglow.

"'Kay," Alfred says with a sunny smile, wiping white blotches from his lips, and that's the beginning.


	2. Chapter 1

Since I was really happy at seeing that some people seem to enjoy this, here is chapter one. **Monique**, or rather **Monique Bonnefoy**, is my name for Monaco.^^

Disclaimer: I still don't own anything.

Warnings for this chapter: Explicite sex scene!

Enjoy! :3

_**Chapter One**_

Their first time together is not even half an hour spent in heat. Francois can't really get used to the strange feeling of not being allowed to kiss his bed partner on the lips, but Alfred leaves him no chance- every time he forgets about it and leans forward, Alfred turns away his head with a smile. Somehow, it leads arousing Francois even further, the simple act of not being able to do something so common quite tempting. It makes him rougher than he wants to be, abandoning every romantic gesture for the freedom of nipping on Alfred's earlobe and collarbone. He pauses for a moment to undress himself without his usual elegance and care, murmuring a quiet request at Alfred to do the same. He watches him with dry lips and trembling desire until he is naked. His body is gorgeous, all muscles and toned skin with almost invisible golden hair on his arms; there is no hair in his pubic area, no happy trail, no chest hair, just smooth skin. However, there is a burn above his heart and an ugly, long white scar right above his hips, reaching from one side to the other. When he opens his thighs and leans back invitingly, though, Francois forgets to ask about the scars, enthralled by his appearance.

"How do ya wanna fuck me?" He asks in a lazy brawl as if he asked about the weather and Francois swallows thickly.

"It's fine like this, cheri," He says quietly and Alfred's eyes lit up.  
>"Oh, you're French? That's so cool!" He exclaims excitedly and then moves forward by telling him: "I don't do it without condom. There's one in the left pocket of my jeans, care to fetch it?"<p>

Francois leaves the bed to do as Alfred wishes and almost finds it funny to oblige a prostitute, even though it's only a small act. "Always prepared, I see," He casually remarks while he climbs back into bed. Alfred shows him a cocky grin.

"You never know where ya get a new customer and the last thing I want is gettin' any sorts of STD," He says with a wink and a small shrug and Francois finds this very considerate and not the worst idea.

"We don't have any lube," He remarks with a small frown and Alfred shrugs again in that nonchalant way.

"Spit's fine," He says in a friendly way and lifts a warm, broad handy to splay it across Francois' chest. "I've been fucked under worse circumstances, no worries. Hm, you're a pretty one, huh? Wonder what'cha doin' with a hooker, you look as if you coulda catch'em all." He laughs silently about a joke Francois doesn't get and takes Francois' right hand, wrapping his lips around them and taking them in to wet them effectively by sucking and licking on them with wet, strangely erotic noises, his tongue playing languidly with each of Francois' digits. Francois licks his lips and lets his fingers slip out of Alfred's mouth. Alfred sucks in a deep breath when he enters him and begins stretching him, so he gently presses the pad of the thumb of his free hand against his lower lip and asks: "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, thanks," Alfred says apparently confused and then places his hands on Francois' shoulders to fuck himself against his fingers with a long moan. His moan grows even more when Francois starts to play with Alfred's nipples, teasing them with clever lips and a hint of tongue. "Damn, like that, yeah, unh, that's so good," He breathes and sends Francois a look under half-lidded eyes, his lips dry and slightly parted and Francois wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss them passionately, getting to know their form and taste.

He can't.

Instead he removes his fingers; his eyes widen a bit when Alfred leans a bit forward and puts the condom on Francois' cock so fast he couldn't protest even if he wanted to (which he doesn't, but still), then hooks his knees into his shoulders and takes him in in one fluid motion while throwing his head aside and closing his eyes.

"Merde," Francois groans and slams all the way in without taking much care, dizzily wondering what it is that sets him that loose without even trying to be romantic, that makes him an egoistic. Maybe it is because of Alfred who watches him with a small smile, apparently not caring about the rough treatment he gets, Alfred who encourages him with loud moans and breathless whisperings and short, bitten-off fingernails digging into Francois' shoulders, Alfred who catches up so easily with his quick, heated rhythm, answering it with fluid movements of his hips and Francois finds himself coming quickly and almost overwhelmingly, biting into Alfred's strong, broad shoulders with a muffled scream.

He takes a moment to come down and just lets his head rest on Alfred's chest after he slipped out of him and threw away the condom, basking in the warmth the young man is practically radiating. However, he doesn't fail in noticing that Alfred is still hard and so he naturally lets a hand trail down to help him, but Alfred makes an almost panicked noise, his legs finally sliding off Francois' shoulders, and he gently shoves his hand away. "It's fine," He says with a smile and is out of the bed before Francois can ask him what is wrong. Francois frowns and sits up to watch Alfred hastily disappearing in the bathroom. After a moment he can hear the shower and he seriously considers following him and starting another round under the shower, but then he remembers with a small sting in his heart that this is not his lover and even though Alfred may oblige him, it wouldn't be for the fun, only for the money.

When Alfred comes back, Francois has lit a cigarette and grabs for his purse. "How much do I owe you, cheri?" He asks with a small smile and Alfred hesitates for a moment before he tells him his price with a loud, bashful voice. Francois nods, not too surprised by the sum Alfred wants, and pays without batting an eyelash. Alfred thanks him with another blinding smile and a confident "Thanks, man!"

"I'd like to see you again," Francois says while Alfred gathers up his clothes and begins to dress himself.

"Sure, why not," Alfred says with a smile and continues: "I work in a club in Downtown, the "Lost Paradise". Just…well, you can call there and ask for me or you go there right away, there's a good chance I'll be there."

"No cellphone?" Francois asks with a wry smile.

"Not for customers," Alfred says with a wink and leaves the hotel room.

/

"Where have you been?" His sister asks from the neighboured balcony while smoking a cigarette. They have a habit of chatting over the railings of their balconies when they are both home at night and Francois finds it nice to share his thoughts with Monique, who understands him simply the best because she is a Bonnefoy, too.

"I fucked a hooker," Francois says and she snorts, shifting her glasses and watching him with clever, dark-blue eyes.

"Are you that desperate?" She asks with an amused, little smile that lifts the corners of her beautiful mouth just so. There is nobody Francois is prouder of than his sister, but sometimes he doesn't appreciate her sense of humour.

"No, but he was…well, he was dashing," Francois admits and stares up in the dark, starless sky. There are never stars above the city. Sometimes he just wants to go leave everything behind and just drive somewhere where he can watch the stars. He never does, though; he is a very busy man and doesn't have the time. "I think I loved him for a moment."

"You always fall in love with beautiful people, but being in love and loving is not the same," Monique remarks and Francois looks at her and thinks that she is too wise for her twenty years, that she shouldn't know that much about the world.

"I don't care," He says instead and winks. "The world loves me and I love the world and seriously, dear sister of mine, where is the difference between a Chantal who lets me invite her for a drink and then take her home and a hooker?"

"One does it for the pleasure, one for the money," Monique deadpans him and he sighs.

There is no use in telling her that he will meet Alfred again.


	3. Chapter 2

Thank you soooooo much for all of your nice reviews, they made me really, really happy and kept me writing, even though this chapter proved to be quite frustrating to write for me since I am just wiating to get to the more exciting parts, but eh, one has to set the scene!

**Azeituna: **Oh my, thank you so much for your nice review, it made me grin like an idiot _ About Alfred being innocent and Francois being disentchanted...well, we will see. ;)

**Kelly the Critic: **Thanks so much for already liking the story! I know that he's called Francis but I tend to give him the French version of his name, especially since I am writing from his POV and he would very likely prefer Francois, at least that's what I guess. It's just a little headcanon, I hope it doesn't disturb you too much^^

**Happyhappyjoyjoy and A:** Thanks for your reviews, I love it when people like what I'm writing 3

_**Chapter 2**_

Francois is mildly surprised when he enters the club. He doesn't know what his idea of the "Lost Paradise" exactly was, but he guesses that he has expected something more dilapidated, something clearly brothel-ish, full of forlorn, unloved people seeking for a moment of joy in the arms of a cheap whore (not that Alfred looked cheap, he thinks, but _still_), but this surely is neither dilapidated nor immediately to be recognized as a brothel.

It looks like a normal club, one of the better ones even, with clean, dark-red walls and a shimmering, black floor. There is a dance floor in the middle of the biggest room where completely normally-dressed people are having a good time dancing to and enthusiastically screaming the lyrics of well-known songs echoing from big black speakers on the walls. The long-stretched, black bar lighted with hundreds of colourful neon signs opposite of the entrance on the head of the room overshadows everything and is apparently the heart of the club.

He sees the drugs, of course, but they are dealt discreetly in the shadows the club generously provides. However, the prostitutes are displayed quite openly, a wide range of more or less pretty people, nice young women and men in clean, erotic clothes which show a lot of naked skin, moving among the crowd with inviting smiles and whispered promises. He watches a young woman with short, brown hair disappear with an older gentleman in one of the almost invisible alcoves framed by thick, red curtains Francois only notices now.

Then he gets aware of the security staff.

They are almost completely blending in with the rest of the crowd, young, Asian people, maybe four or five, nothing more, but their focus seem to be everywhere. They are constantly in motion, flowing through the people, obviously reminding the prostitutes of their duty, complimenting drunk people bashing around out of the club. Only one of them never changes his position and Francois lets his gaze wander over him. He is young, painfully so, with big, dark eyes and shiny, black hair reaching to his chin, wearing something akin to a Kimono, Francois was never really interested in Asian ways of styling. His face wears no expression at all, which Francois finds impressive, at least somehow. He has the slight feeling that this young man is important, so he makes his way over to him to ask him about Alfred.

However, he doesn't get the chance to reach him because a young, Asian woman appears in front of him. She has sleek, almost black hair falling like a waterfall down her back, a pink rose tucked behind her ear, and her eyes are big, dark and soft like those of a doe, but the look she is watching him with is weary and not at the least naive. Her mouth is small and heart-shaped with rosy, full lips accentuated by the slightest hint of lip gloss. She is wearing bright, happy colors, a pink, gold-trimmed qipao with long, flowing sleeves and a long, white skirt with pink slippers on her feet.

"May I help you?" She asks softly and gently and smiles at him. There is a slight accent in her voice he finds quite charming.

"Ah, non, cherie, I am not here for a woman tonight," He replies with a warm smile on his own and she laughs.

"Oh, I am not available anyways," She replies. "I am a member of the staff. Are you looking for someone special? We have some really nice young men who would love to entertain y-"

"Actually I am looking for Alfred," He interrupts her and believes for a moment that her eyes widen a bit.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, well, he is taller than me by a few inches, blonde hair, blue ey-"

"I know who Alfred is," She says and coughs lightly. "It's just…normally he never tells his name to customers, but eh, it's fine." She pauses and thinks for a moment, then she continues: "You are lucky, he is working here tonight. You will have to wait for a moment, though; he is occupied right now as far as I know. Please follow me."

She leads him through the club, passing the alcoves until they reach a black door, which she opens. Francois doesn't need her request to follow her through, entering a long floor with several doors; some are open and Francois glances curiously through one of them. He is pleased to see a tasteful room with a big, double-sized bed covered in dark bedclothes. There is not much else in the room besides a big closet and a table beneath a small window with closed curtains.

"Please wait here," His female companion tells him and stops in front of a closed door. "He will be ready in a few moments, I guess."

"Merci," Francois says with a charming smile and watches her leave, her steps elegant and light. He passes time by litting a cigarette and leaning against the wall opposite from the closed door, ignoring people walking in and out of other rooms around him as time passes on. There are many things going on in his head; his newest project, the portrait he is currently working on, the party he got invited to and will probably not attend because- there is no reason. He doesn't feel like it, that's everything of a reason he needs and it effectively distracts him from following the small thought of the reason as to why he is running after a hooker and what it is that makes him ache for the chance to draw him.

It doesn't need only one, but two slowly smoked cigarettes until the door in front of him opens. A young woman steps out, her fine clothes are askew and the line of her brown hair seems slightly sweaty. When she becomes aware of him, she blushes and averts his gaze as she rushes past him, eager to reach the official part of the club again. Francois blinks for a moment after her, then he shrugs and enters the room. The heavy smell of sex fills the air, even though the window is opened, and the sheets on the bed are crumbled and partly falling off the mattress. There is a door in one of the sidewalls and he assumes that it leads to a bathroom since there is the sound of a shower, but it's closed, so he decides to stare at it after he settled down on the very edge of the bed. He doesn't have to wait long until the door opens and Alfred steps out of a tiny bathroom (which lets Francois congratulate himself to be wonderful and as talented as Sherlock Holmes in the science of deduction). His eyes widen a bit when he gets aware of Francois, then he smiles. "Oh, hello, Frenchie! Couldn't wait to see me again, could ya? How are you?"

"Well, I've surely missed you," He replies with a small smile and watches Alfred dressing. As someone with a deep love for fashion, he notice Alfred's clothes out of habit: tight jeans, the waistband dangerously low, a crumbled, blood-red shirt Alfred only closes with one button in the middle so Francois can perfectly well see his broad chest and his flat abdomen.

"My work clothes," Alfred says when he notices his look and laughs, but somehow it doesn't sound happy. "One needs to show what he has, rule number one."

"And what are the other rules?" Francois asks, but Alfred just smiles and asks: "What can I do for you, Frenchie?" He already makes a move for him, but Francois hastily stops him before Alfred can sweep him into his arms, whereupon Alfred looks confused, very much so.

"I am not here for your, ah, services, my dear," Francois begins to explain and takes a long drag from his newly-lit cigarette, before he continues: "I wanted to ask you a special favour."

"Me? A special favour?" There is a new level of confusion visible on Alfred's face, his bright blue eyes wide and surprisingly wary, but Francois supposes that living as a whore is not really helpful in becoming a trusting person.

"Yes," He answers and tilts his head lightly, feeling his hair brushing lightly against his cheek. "I would like to draw a picture of you."

"A—" Alfred seems speechless and stares at him for a long moment, then he laughs nervously and runs his fingers through his hair in a quick, almost nervous gesture. "Now why would you wanna do that?"

"Mon cheri, you are beautiful!" Francois replies honestly surprised; then he decides to be utterly honest. "I thought about it the entire last two days since our-" He pauses and tries to seek for a better word for "animalistic fucking" and goes for: "-meeting. You see, I cannot quite explain it since it is something one must feel, but I had the image of your eyes imprinted on my soul."

"That sounds like a lotta bullshit," Alfred states pragmatically and Francois laughs, because, yes, it actually sounds like a phrase from a poem, but how else should he describe the moment of inspiration, the fluttering spark enlightened by an unknown power in the heart of an artist? How could he describe the haunting ideas and pictures in his head, begging to be released from the crowded space of his mind, filled with ideas and ideals and more, begging to be able to get on canvas in bright, lovely colours, shaped with the craftiness of his mind, the technique in his fingers and the tender streaks of his paint-brushes?

"I cannot describe it to you," He says quietly and offers an apologetic smile. "All I can tell you is that I would really like to draw you. You have such an expressive, pretty face, it's incredible."

Alfred's ears become a bright red and he laughs sheepishly. "Ah-well, thank you." He pauses for a moment, his forehead wrinkling in concentration, then he sighs. "Well, uhm, I wouldn't mind, you know, it's just…When do you want to start?"

"I thought about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Alfred looks flabbergasted. "You're really serious, aren't you!"

"I am," Francois says with a laugh and pulls out his pack of cigarettes to take of them out of it.

"Well, uh—" There is hesitation in Alfred's eyes, but Francois can watch them harden with determination in an instant. "Tomorrow's fine. What time?"

"Not before twelve am," Francois answers promptly and adds a kind smile. "After that, you're welcomed to come whenever you want, just ring."

He writes down his address on the back of Alfred's hand and, after a moment of thought, adds his cellphone number to wink at him. "Don't lose it, cheri. There are dozens of Chantals and Jacques' who consider this number to be pure gold."

He walks out of the room with Alfred's surprised, hearty laugh in his ears and a pleasant feeling in his chest.

/


	4. Chapter 3

Ahaha, thank you so much for all your nice reviews, I'm really flattered /

bunnies: Thanks a lot, I alway appreciate it whenever people praise my writing style, especially since I don't write in my native language :D  
><span>Kelly the Critic: <span>I'll try! Hopefully you're as satisfied with this chapter as you were with those before :D  
><span>Awwww:<span> Yes, he is and hopefully he stays like that, Alfred needs it n_n Thanks for your comment!

And now, enjoy!

_**Chapter 3**_

Francois wears his fancy, frilly dressing gown and drinks his second cup of coffee while his beloved Edith Piaf is playing in the background and he reads his newspapers. It's a daily habit, a morning ritual he is very fond of; these are the minutes only belonging to him and he likes it very much that way. He is half way through his freshly baked croissant when the doorbell rings and sighs a little unwillingly before getting up and opening the door. However, Francois' mood improves quickly when he discovers that his guest is Alfred who smiles a little sheepishly at him and scratches the back of his head. He is dressed in a plain blue T-Shirt and faded Jeans together with bright, white and red sneakers and Francois marvels at the muscles curving underneath the T-Shirts.

"Hi," Alfred says and, after a short moment, awkwardly offers a hand which Francois gracefully shakes. "I'm not too early, am I? You said after twelve, so…"

"It's fine, cheri," Francois smiles and quickly ushers him into his flat. "I was just having breakfast, do you want something?"

Alfred's eyes widen and he stands so fast at the table that Francois can't even blink properly, curiously examining bread, butter, marmalades and croissants- Francois likes to have a wide range of food to choose from. "Awesome!" He exclaims and sends a stunning smile at Francois, who closes the door behind him and smiles back. "And I can really-?"

"Sure, just go ahead," Francois says with a dismissive wave of his hand and settles down in the seat he has abandoned for opening the door again. He can't help but stare a little bewildered as Alfred digs into the food like a half-starved lion cub, drowning his croissants in butter and marmalade and ignoring the bread- apparently he likes sweet things better and Francois absent-mindedly makes a mental note of that. Alfred eats messy, marmalade and crumbs adorning his lips and he wipes them off with a quick motion of his thumb, sucking the marmalade off it before he continues to eat. Francois wonders if he does it on purpose; probably not.

"You are allowed to chew now and then, cheri," He says a little concerned after a while because he has no idea what he should do if Alfred choked on a piece of food.

"I 'o, 'on' 'orry," Is Alfred's answer and he quickly swallows down everything in his mouth to duck his head and smile sheepishly, like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It is adorable and Francois can't help but laugh fondly. He is almost awed to see that there is only one croissant left after Alfred's eating orgy. "You have a healthy appetite, cheri."

"Ah, well, I haven't eaten anything for hours now," Alfred responds, accepting the napkin Francois hands him with a smile and wiping his mouth off properly. "So thanks a lot, Frenchie, you really saved my life!"

"Do you have to call me that?" Francois sighs and brushes back a strand of his hair. "Not that I am not proud of my heritage, but it is kind of impersonal."

Alfred widens his eyes and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Well, I don't know your name and I don't wanna call you "dude with girly locks", so I call you Frenchie. 'Cause you're French. I could've called you "Beardie" too, but I thought you might find it insulting, so-"

"Un moment," Francois interrupts, "I never told you my name?"

"Well, the first time we fucked and the second time, uh, I guess there simply wasn't an opportunity," Alfred answers and shrugs nonchalantly and Francois blinks before he lifts one of Alfred's hands and places a kiss on it, visibly startling the younger man with his actions.

"My name is Francois Bonnefoy," He says and sends one of his infamous flirtatious smiles at Alfred who laughs awkwardly. "It is very nice to meet you-again, I might say."

"Huh, you're funny," Alfred says and chuckles delighted. Francois looks at him and wonders how easy it is to forget what Alfred is and how they met for the first time. All he can see right now is a young man, not overly complicated in mind or behavior, with a beautiful face and an even more beautiful smile, handsome as hell and blessed with an appetite that would put a grown bear to shame. He is surprised to find himself drawn to Alfred's open behavior, the way he handles his life, apparently without minding it that much, even though he would have enough reason of doing so.

"So!" Alfred interrupts his thoughts and stretches slightly, revealing a strip of perfectly tanned skin with light, golden hair between the waistband of his jeans and his shirt and Francois can't help but stare for a moment. "When're we gonna start?"

Sometimes Francois finds it difficult to decipher what Alfred is saying since the young man tends to swallow syllables and drawl in an awfully sweet accent and Francois never was that keen on bringing his English skills to perfection, but he doesn't comment on it and instead answers: "I thought about starting with a portrait, since you have a really beautiful face. And your eyes-marvelous."

"Thank you," Alfred says and smiles, his eyes not giving away any further emotion.

"And I would like to draw you naked later," Francois continues and is surprised to find a nervous twitch in Alfred's smile.

"Sure thing!" He answers and Francois watches him intently for another moment until he nods and gestures towards a pompous, red couch in the middle of his atelier in the other half of the generous living room. The light in here is perfect for drawing and Francois marvels a moment about the sheer beauty of his surroundings, then he gets interrupted by the way Alfred marches up to the couch and takes place on it, nothing of the erotic saunter he has shown him before in his steps; instead he walks quickly and energetic but without finesse, entirely a young man on a mission. Francois is disappointed and wants to kiss him badly at the same time. This surprises him; it has been a while since somebody was able to elicit different emotions at the same time out of him.

"Don't'cha wanna get dressed or somethin'?" Alfred asks and nods with his chin towards Francois' dressing gown while showing him a cheeky grin.

"Do you mind?" Francois asks, acting disappointed, and flutters his eyelashes especially coquettish, causing Alfred's ears to turn pink.

"Of course not!" He almost shouts and looks really worried for a moment, "It's just not—really professional, is it?"

"It's professional when I say so," Francois says promptly and moves to Alfred to gently stroke his cheek. "Just hold still and think of something. Just don't get distracted so much by me."

"'Kay," Alfred answers and holds still, a small smile tugging on his lips while Francois sits down in front of him on his favorite chair, pulls out his sketch book and starts to make some quick sketches with a simple pencil to get used to Alfred's facial features. All the while Alfred sits perfectly still; however, when Francois starts to draw the first lines onto an empty canvas, he slowly but steadily begins to fidget around while looking as innocently as possible. There is a slight tremor in his left leg and he presses his lips together without noticing it, causing Francois to sigh desperately.

"Cheri, I told you to hold still, didn't I? You are making my work very difficult!" Francois chides lightly and Alfred automatically ducks his head and smiles sheepishly.

"Sorry," He offers and straightens his back to sit perfectly still again; however, again not for very long. Francois is relieved to see that his face doesn't move, though, since Alfred seemingly figured out that it would be not that bad if he tapped his fingers against his knees, causing a drumming sound that contrasts almost harshly with Edith Piaf's sweet voice in the background. To Francois' surprise, he says not a single word and Francois hums lightly in the rhythm of "La Vie En Rose", overwhelmed with love for his beautiful motherland for a moment as he often is when the sun shines through his window and he can hear people chatting on the streets, when he catches a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower standing proudly like a giant phallic symbol above the roofs of Paris, when he sees people smiling and laughing at each other. He doesn't need a special occasion to become so fond of Paris, only an average day and love in his heart. He wonders if Alfred also appreciates the beauty France holds or if he misses America just like Francois misses France every time he has to leave it. He wonders what Alfred is doing here at all, but something prevents him from asking.

"This should be fine, cheri," Francois says after a while and laughs when Alfred looks relieved.

"Dude! Never thought it'd be that hard to just sit an' do nothin'!" He exclaims and stretches again with a slight groan and Francois automatically stretches out a hand and tries to smooth that stubborn cowlick on his head, but without any success. Alfred just laughs at him, but somehow he manages to stay friendly enough that Francois doesn't feel offended. "So, uhm-are we finished?"

"Unfortunately, oui," Francois answers and nods with a sigh, before he stands up and looks for his purse. "I would like to see you again tomorrow, if you have time, so I can concentrate on my other projects and do the coloring tomorrow."

"No problem," Alfred says and stands up as well, gaping at the bank notes Francois hands him. "That's too much!"

"It's fine," Francois gives back and smiles encouragingly, giving in to his desire, at least a little, and brushing Alfred's cheek, widening his eyes in surprise when Alfred presses up against him and kisses his neck.

"You're really pretty, Francis," He murmurs with a low voice and Francois can feel himself responding to it. "I can make it up to you if you want."

And Francois almost says yes, but something in his stomach twists and coils because it just _doesn't feel right_, so he shakes his head and gently shoves Alfred away, ignoring the almost hurt confusion in his eyes and instead focusing on his hands. Alfred has really nice hands, broad and big with short-clipped nails and scratched knuckles; he wonders what happened to them. "It's fine," He says with a calm tone and smiles lightly, patting Alfred's cheek again. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," Alfred says quietly, "I'll just….see myself out. Bye."  
>Francois watches him leave with a sigh and closes his eyes for a moment before he picks up the canvas. He is surprised to see that Alfred's eyes are sad.<p> 


	5. Chapter 4

Oh my, thank you so much for all the nice feedback I got :D I'm sorry this chapter needed a bit longer, but I'm pretty busy with school at the moment *sigh*

Anyways, hope you enjoy! :)

**_/_**

_**Chapter 4**_

It's only a few sessions later that they fuck on the couch because Francois is not a bad man, but sometimes wanting something gets stronger than the good side of his personality and he wants, wants so much and cannot understand _why_. Alfred says nothing and doesn't mind; he just smiles and spreads his legs for him, giving him the merciful illusion of wanting him too. They don't kiss lips on lips- of course they do not; it is an illusion after all and an illusion always contains a little detail that separates it from reality-, but Alfred makes up by littering hot, open-mouthed kisses on his neck and shoulders, moaning and gasping his name oh so loud and it stings and burns and aches in Francois' chest. He traces his fingertips along Alfred's jaw and wants him to look at him, but Alfred's eyes are closed, his eyelids fluttering slightly, and he is pretty, so pretty when Francois touches his face and body, trying to smooth the almost invisible trembling in Alfred's thighs and wonders how old he is because he looks young and painfully spent when his glasses are askew, dangling from one ear as Francois thrusts into his pliant body. He smiles when Alfred wraps his arms around his neck in an almost endearing way, much too shy to not startle Francois a bit and then Alfred reaches up and does that wicked thing with his tongue and-

"It's half price for you," Alfred tells him when he comes back from the shower and finds Francois waiting with his usual payment. "This can stay between us, righ'?"

"Right," Francois agrees and wonders whether to appreciate this gesture or hate it.

/

"It's just bad luck, I guess," Alfred says. He sits on a bright, red armchair this time, fully clothed albeit a bit wrinkled and messy, but it's fine like that and Francois loves his natural, relaxed position. "Ending living as I do, I mean. Depends on where you're born and what kind of family, of back-up you have, you know? And sometimes things just go downhill an' you can't do nothin' 'bout it."

Francois listens, cigarette dangling from his lips while he works, slow, sure sketches of Alfred on his couch. Eventually he has given up on bringing Alfred to hold still; instead he lets him move and fidget around, smiles when he sees how much Alfred tries to stop his movements and behave properly so he can draw him only to fail every time again. He doesn't mind too much; he is talented enough to imagine the shades and if he can't, he orders Alfred around until he sits as optimal as possible. "Do you think you would be somewhere else, doing something else if you were born differently?"

"Yeah, definitively," Alfred answers without thinking twice and is quiet while he thinks. "I would have finished High School, first of all. Would've probably studied Astrophysics then."

"Physics?" Francois asks a little surprised and drowns the stump of his cigarette in his glass of water while he starts coloring.  
>"Yeah," Alfred says and laughs a little awkwardly, putting his hands in his lap. "I always wanted to become a teacher, you know." He sighs a little and there is a little frown on his face, a mournful expression around his lips when he shrugs his shoulder in what should be a nonchalant way. "Ah well, sometimes it just doesn't work that way, righ'? Maybe I'll become a teacher, but I guess…" He trails off and laughs a little too loud. "Sorry for blabbering away like that, I'm pretty sure you're not even interested in-"<p>

"Ah, but I am," Francois interrupts him and sends him a gentle smile and he is surprised when he finds that he _means_ it. Alfred has become some sort of fascination to him; he is not only a pretty motif anymore but a young man with a story he has yet to get to know. "How old are you, mon cher?"  
>"I'm legal, if that's what you mean," Alfred says with a smile and adds after a moment: "At least in Europe. I'm nineteen."<p>

Francois nearly chokes and lets the pencil sink, clearing his throat when Alfred stares at him with wide eyes. "Nineteen," He repeats and successfully suppresses a horrified shudder when he realizes that he is attracted to a man so painfully young. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Prostitution? Started with fifteen," Alfred answers and watches him carefully. "That's pretty normal, actually, most people I know started around that age."

"Fifteen," Francois repeats and feels a bit lost, so he just lits another cigarette and looks out of the window. He wonders who would even want to sleep with a fifteen-year-old boy who has no idea of what he is doing, who is still awkward und unsure of his body, lanky and growing and in need of someone guiding him and lending him a hand even when he rejects it in a fit of adolescent tantrum. He wonders how Alfred's first time has been, wonders if he was afraid, if there was somebody comforting him, but no, and this time he laughs a bit hysterically- probably not. Fifteen. Boys should have their first love with fifteen, should go to school and complain about when they come home, watch TV and play games. They should not, of all things, have to sell their bodies, worry about whether to catch some disease or not, should not have to fear abusive behavior from the persons they sleep with. "Why?"

"Huh?"

Francois realizes that Alfred probably has no idea what he is talking about. "Why did you start with this?"

"Prostitution? Well, isn't it kinda obvious?" Alfred says and blinks a bit, before righting the position of his glasses and smiling at him. "I needed the money."

"And there was no other way besides selling your body?" Francois asks and hears the tension in his own voice, but he simply cannot _understand_, even though he tries to.

Alfred shakes his head, his face wearing a strangely solemn expression. "I was in-trouble. Yao helped me and I happened to be handsome." He shrugs and smiles again his broad Hollywood-smile. "Yao's not the worst pimp, you know. He allows me to work on times I myself can decide and he doesn't get that physical when he wants you to do something." For a moment, a strange expression flickers over his face, but it's gone in an instant, masked by a yawn. "True, I would make more money without him, but, well-" He hesitates a bit and shrugs again. "I owe him. Hah, uh, well, are you finished? 'Cause I need to go soon, y'know, but I don't want to ruin your picture, so…"

Francois frowns when he notices how nervous Alfred suddenly has become, but he slowly nods and puts his pencil aside. "It wasn't a picture, mon cher," He gently replies, "Only a few sketches to get an idea for the real painting."

"Oh, peachy, cool, uh, I gotta go now, we can continue tomorrow if you want," Alfred says and grabs for the old, worn bomber jacket he has worn the last few times they have worked together and Francois would find it horrible if it wasn't so wonderfully vintage. He watches him slip into it and leaves his chair to open the door.

"Try not to wriggle so much next time, alright?" He says and is surprised when Alfred laughs without looking at him and presses a sloppy kiss on his cheek before he dashes into the staircase, quickly disappearing from Francois' field of view. With a sigh Francois closes his door and goes into the kitchen, only to open the door again only a few minutes later. He is pleasantly surprised to see his sister who steps into his flat without asking, kissing his right and left cheek and placing her newest bag from Louis Vuitton on his settee before she settles down beside it and checks her appearance in a small mirror.

"I just escaped an assault," She says and puts the mirror away with a sigh, sorting out the frills of her dark-blue dress. "Some pretty boy nearly overran me in the staircase!"

"Oh mon dieu!" Francois grins and slips fully into his native language as he always does when talking to his sister. He sits beside her after offering her a cup of coffee which she gladly accepted. "Was he blonde and blue eyed?"

"Yes," Monique agrees and takes a sip from her coffee. "One of yours?"

"The hooker I told you from," Francois says and notices the interest of his sister grow. "I started to draw him."

"I can see why," Monique answers thoughtfully. "As far as I've seen he was really pretty, even though he seemed to be in a hurry, which is probably no wonder."  
>"What do you mean?" Francois asks a bit confused.<p>

"Oh, he was bleeding from his nose," Monique answers with a dismissive gesture of her slender, right hand. "I wanted to offer him a tissue but he was away before I could open my mouth. Are you still sleeping with him?"

"Ah, yes," Francois answers a bit distracted and lits a cigarette before he reconsiders his answer. "I mean, I didn't intend to, but…" He doesn't know what to say to get Monique to understand what he wants to tell her without sounding like someone he doesn't want to be, someone sleeping with an oh so young boy without considering his feelings and wants and just _takes_, so he tells her of their sessions and how admirably cheerful Alfred is, how much he likes the few true smiles he gives him every now and then. However, somehow Monique seems to understand because she sighs deeply and takes his hand to squeeze it gently.

"It's fine," She says solemnly, "You appreciate pretty things. He is pretty and used to people wanting to sleep with him because of that."  
>"But-"<p>

"I don't think you treat him badly, so I don't see a problem for him in this because if he didn't sleep with you, he would sleep with somebody else," She continues while sufficiently ignoring his tried input, absently patting his hand while speaking. "I won't lie to you. I know how much you love falling in and out of love, Francois, and don't deny it! Taking this into consideration, getting involved with him further than sleeping with him for one night was one of the worst ideas you have ever had."

"Thank you," Francois says drily and tries to ignore the quiet voice in his head telling him that Monique is perfectly right.

"I am not here to pity you, you have your friends for that," Monique says with pursed lips and crosses her arms. "I am just…Well, it is your life, Francois, and I won't tell you what to do of course. I just think that falling for a hooker is probably not the wisest idea, but on the other side- when have you ever measured your actions on what is wise and what not?"

**_/_**


	6. Chapter 5

Hello, my dears! Welcome back to another chapter. I'm really glad to see that there is still so much interest in this story since it tells me that I apparently do something right :3 Thank you for all your lovely comments and faves, it means very much to me n_n

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, sadly.

Warnings: Uh...language, vivid talking about sex, drunk Englishmen

Enjoy!

**_/_**

_**Chapter 5**_

There are quite a few moments in their on-going "relationship" ( whatever term of "relationship" they have) where Francois learns something about Alfred that truly astounds him and shows him once again how different they are in some areas. Most of these moments happen during completely normal sessions and most of them are only small revelations too, but somehow Francois considers them incredibly important and he still doesn't exactly know why. One of these moments happens after three or four sessions when Francois finally wants to start the _real _painting, except-

"Why don't you just take some pictures of me?" Alfred demands to know the next time when Francois mildly scolds him again for being so fidgety. "Wouldn't that be, y'know, easier?"

"Maybe it would be, yes," Francois absently agrees and looks for a hair ribbon to tie his hair back because as much as he loves his hair it is quite in the way today. "But I don't like working with pictures. It's so much-" For a moment he searches for the right word, then he continues: "It's more plastic, more vividly. Even though you are wriggling like a five-year-old, mon cher."

He ends with a wink and a smile and Alfred just grins and ducks his head like a child expecting to be punished (which Francois really does not like, but he can't do anything about it besides smiling reassuringly to show that he is not angry). Finally he is successful in his search and finds a black velvet ribbon in a drawer. He busies himself with his hair for a moment and whips out a small hand mirror to check his appearance, but he is lovely as always, so he tucks it away pretty soon. When he turns around, he finds Alfred smiling at him, a warm, honest smile, and somehow it makes something flutter in his chest.

"What is it, mon cheri?" He asks and wonders for the first time how his English may sound in the ears of a Native speaker. Francois has not much occasions to speak English since he is reluctant to leave France when he doesn't absolutely have to and the French speak, well, _French_- and he is quite content with this because he still thinks that English is a harsh language, at least when compared to his beautiful, flowing French that sounds like a river washing over smooth, white stones in a little stream, heated by the sun and surrounded by only the most beautiful things. However, English- especially British English, he mentally adds as a matter of principle-does not sound nice in his ears, being a bit too sharp around the edges and without apparent grace. Still, he likes the accent Alfred has when he does not mind a correct pronunciation so Francis can understand him (which is actually quite sweet, especially because it comes from someone who has no reason to show him more friendliness than necessary). He finds something appealing in the way Alfred butchers the English language then, making it so much softer by swallowing various syllables, not really impossible to understand, but almost.

"Nothin'," Alfred answers and his smile widens a bit so Francois catches a glimpse of his pearly teeth and wonders, not for the first time, how the boy manages to be in such a good health. "Just thought it's kinda cute how much you think of y'appearance."

"Quais, some people take care of their appearance, mon cher," Francois replies with a wink and a charming smile.

"You don't think I take care of my appearance?" Alfred asks and Francois is a bit surprised at his frown.

"That's not what I said," He carefully answers.

"Yeah, but it sounded a bit like it, y'know?" Alfred says, "In fact, I _need _to take care of my appearance. If I didn't, well." There is something twisted about the way he smiles now and Francois doesn't like it. "Wouldn't change my amount of Johns, I guess, but Yao wouldn't be pleased." Francis has the feeling that he shouldn't ask any further, so he just nods and gives a smile, ignoring the unwanted chill running down his spine because he realizes, again, that Alfred does not have complete power over his body, that there is someone who has the power to tell him to sleep with as much people as he, Yao, wants.

"Do you like it?" He asks suddenly because it is a question he has had for quite a while now but never asked because he was afraid of the answer. Now, though, he spilled it and he is fairly sure that Alfred will answer him. "Sleeping with other people?"

Alfred frowns a bit, then he throws his head back and laughs heartedly. "Man, you really got me!" He laughs again, but quiets down when he sees Francois' facial expression. "Oh, that wasn't a joke, right?"  
>"Non," Francois answers honestly.<p>

"Well, I don't," Alfred says bluntly and chews a bit on his nails before continuing: "I mean, sometimes it's okay! I don't mind sleeping with you, for example, I guess other people really dig you as a lover, huh?"

Francois sits down and lits a cigarette because he feels that this is important. "Most of them do, yes," He says with a smile. "Why don't you like it?"  
>"Well…" Alfred hesitates for a moment and there is a glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't belong there. "People usually are not exactly <em>nice<em>to you when they pay for you, you know? They think that because they paid for you, they can do everything to you and I guess they're right in some way. I mean, that's we're for, right? I never say no-can't. Most of the customers wouldn't be pleased, so Yao wouldn't be very pleased and I really-don't like Yao bein' pissed at me, y'know? Makes things…not nice."

"I thought he doesn't hit you."  
>"He has his methods."<p>

Francois nods and thinks about this very carefully while he prepares the canvas. He doesn't know what he should think about Yao having his "methods", but Alfred is not a delicate lady and he guesses that he can handle himself as far as it is possible. "So sex is never something pleasant for you?"

"No," Alfred answers a bit hesitantly, then he adds quickly: "But it's really okay fucking with you, you know! You're really good!"

"You don't need to flatter me, Alfred, it's alright," Francois replies mildly although something stings and burns in his chest again because he has always, always taken pride in pleasuring his partners as much as getting pleasured by them, probably even more so. Alfred was right in saying that he is a lover; Francois has always considered himself to be one. He finds beauty in the human shape and he is determined to help people to _see _how beautiful they are. To hear that somebody didn't enjoy sleeping with him doesn't only hurt his pride, but also something deep down in his heart. He ashes into the nearby vase and orders Alfred around until he has them in the position he wants him to be. Alfred follows his orders obediently and again Francois wonders how often he has already done so under different circumstances. "So you never come?"

Alfred shakes his head. "Not if I don't have to, no. Sometimes, I'm—well, you know," He stumbles a bit over his words and Francois is surprised to actually find something like embarrassment in a hooker but then, he thinks, why not? He doesn't know which kind of personality Alfred has—true, he knows that he is usually a quite positive person, cheerful even, but he doesn't even know if the way he acts around him is even _true_. And furthermore, he is still so young-maybe he doesn't want to speak about the thing he does. Maybe having to do them is enough. Who is he to talk about these things? Francois only makes love when he feels like it. Alfred doesn't even _call_ it making love. "Sometimes I show some reaction, y'know, if people actually are a bit more considerate than usual or just happen to hit the right spot or if they- gosh, you wouldn't believe it, but there are some pretty freaks out there-pay to give me a blowjob or something like that, can't really help that, can I? But I don't want-well, most people don't care about it anyways, so…"

But Francois has caught his slip of the tongue and frowns. "You don't want to come?"

This time it needs more than a moment until Alfred answers, so long, in fact, that Francois thinks he won't answer at all, but then Alfred says: "Well, I don't like the people I sleep with and I don't like, y'know, having sex at all, so why should I want that?"

"So you don't like me?" Francois asks and hasn't intended to sound that hurt, but he did and there is nothing he can do about it now.

Alfred widens his eyes a bit and sits up, changing the position he has been in. "No, I-you're very kind to me and I-I guess-y'see, I never had any contact with other customers outside of the club or, well, a hotel, so this is somethin' new for me," He admits a bit sheepishly. "But even though I kinda like you, I just don't-like sex. Sorry." He frowns a bit and asks: "Was that too honest? Yao always tells me I should say what the people wanna hear, but I don't-wanna lie to you, y'know."

"C'est bien, it's fine," Francois appeases him and sends a friendly little smile along his way, pleased to hear that Alfred at least likes him. There is a plan slowly forming in his mind because Francois can and does not want to accept that sex should not be pleasurable for everybody. Maybe he just needs to convince Alfred a little because apparently he hasn't tried enough until now. He has the feeling that Alfred is someone who _deserves _love (but then, who doesn't?), who maybe even _needs_ it because all the time Francois draws him, no matter how much he smiles, his eyes are sad and Francois sometimes wonders if there is anybody who takes care of Alfred. Does he have family? Friends? Francois doesn't even know if it would be alright to ask.

"Maybe we should-"Francois begins but he never finds the chance to finish his sentence because right in this moment his door flies open and a very drunk, sinewy man with enormous brows, tousled, choppy blonde hair and blazing green eyes now clouded with the fog only alcohol provides stumbles into his flat. Francois registers that he is wearing a pirate costume; at least it is a very fine one.

"Frog!" The intruder barks with an unmistakable British accent and stumbles towards him, falling into his arms like a potato sack. "Why's my brother such a bloody wanker?"

"Who's that?" Alfred asks curiously from the sofa and the Brit lifts his head and eyes him equally curiously.

"Alfred, this is my poisson, mon fish, Arthur," Francois generously presents Arthur. "Arthur, this is Alfred. He is—my newest model."

"Bet ye fuck him, ye perverted piece of baguettewanker," Arthur growls, losing all of his usual uptight behaviour when he is drunk and leans heavily against him again, tricorn almost falling off his head. "Anyways, Scott's a tosser, ye need to help me murder 'im."

"What happened?" Francois asks and sighs.

"We were about to fuck-"

"You sleep with your _brother_?" Alfred interrupts him with wide eyes and a visibly disgusted face and Francois can't even judge him for that.

"Arthur is adopted, cheri, they're not _really_ brothers," He explains and adds: "It's all a bit difficult with those two, you know." He doesn't mention that Alfred is most certainly not the only one who thinks that Arthur's and Scott's relationship is at least weird, because even though they are not brothers by blood, they were mostly raised like ones and how could you fall in love with someone you consider your brother, even only partially? But Francois is not one to judge and he has to admit that there is something nice, beautiful even, about them when they are not busy with arguing.

"Aye," Arthur agrees and watches Alfred with bloodshot eyes. "And I don't need _your _opinion, thank you very much. Who are ye anyways? One of Francois' whores?"

Alfred visibly stiffens and Francois hisses a warningly "Arthur!", but Arthur, not giving a fuck about what Francois has to say to him especially when he is drunk, doesn't even bat an eyelash and continues, venom in every word he says: "Coming here to get painted by him and hoping to get _famous _someday? Tell you what: He'll fuck you and then he'll drop you and I can't even condemn him for that. He even did it with me. God, frog, I hate you!" He suddenly wails and Francois sighs because he knows how things will go from here.

"I think I'll go now," Alfred says quietly, smiling as usual, but this time not even drunk-as-fuck Arthur would have believed it. He stands up and runs a hand through his hair, correcting his glasses in a nervous gesture Francois has already seen quite a few times on him. "Till the next time, I guess, huh? Bye."  
>"Please stay," Francois manages to say, but Alfred doesn't seem to hear him because he is out of the door before he could say anything else. With a sigh Francois looks down to Arthur who has placed himself flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling, stroking the sword coming with his pirate costume and sobbing while murmuring insults against everyone he knows, especially Scott and Francois. "You need to ruin anything, don't you?"<br>Arthur just continues to wail and Francois feels a headache coming.

**_/_**


	7. Chapter 6

Hello, my dear readers! It's been a while but here is the next chapter containing a very thoughtful Francois and a very grumpy Arthur. :) Thank you so,so,so,so,so much for all your nice reviews, they made me just ridiculously happy, thanks a lot!  
>And now, enjoy!<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 6<strong>_

"This is your fault," Arthur groans and puts his head in his hands. "It is always your fault. Fucking hell, my head explodes."

"It is certainly not my fault that you drank too much- again- and stumbled into my flat like a wild boar- again- just to complain about Scott," Francois says a little sharper than intended, but then, he hasn't had his second cup of coffee and his second cigarette on this day yet and so he adds with all the sharpness he can muster, "_Again_."

"Oh, just bloody shut up, will ye?" Arthur snaps and looks through his fingers with one angry, green eye. "I won't ever drink again," He moans the next moment and buries his face into Francois's newest scarf, which has lain on the table since yesterday.

Francois sighs because they both know it's not true and says moodily, "No, you will and we both know you will and now stop whining and face the consequences, you're not a little boy anymore, you cannot come running and hide underneath my skirt whenever you're in trouble anymore, Poisson!"

"There are no consequences to face," Arthur grumbles out of the depths of Francois's scarf.

"Yes, there are." He folds his arms and stares out of the window. Paris seems to be a little less bright than usual today, its colors dimmed, almost as if they were hiding away from daylight. Alfred has not come today or at least he is one hour overdue. He wonders if this is really Arthur's fault and then decides that yes, it is, because it is always Arthur's fault. "You shied away my model!" He exclaims and turns around in a dramatic movement; Arthur rolls his eyes.

"You'll find another one, stop being such a sissy."

"But I want this one," Francois says more fiercely than originally intended and pauses for a moment because as much as he hates to admit it, theoretically Arthur is right. He knows he is talented, painfully so, and he allows himself to take pride in it because he deserves it. It is fact that he is one of the most famous artists in Paris and people would murder to pose for him; it wouldn't be difficult to find someone else if he wanted someone else. It probably wouldn't even be difficult to find someone who looks similar to Alfred, with broad shoulders and blonde hair that glistens golden in the sunlight falling through the windows of his atelier. Paris gives those who look at the right place without any difficulties. However, he doesn't _want _anybody else; he wants Alfred, Alfred with his too-wide smile, Alfred with his clear blue eyes in which he can always, always recognize the dark swirls of a rough past. It fascinates him.

There are not many people that fascinate him nowadays.

Arthur, who has known him for years and years and years- and seriously, when has he stopped being a cute little boy looking like an angry caterpillar and hiding underneath Francois' wide clothes?-, watches him with intent eyes. He is not stupid (even though he is British); he sees more than Francois wants him to see, sees even more than there ever was, ghosts and fairies and lost what-could-be-s. Francois wonders what Arthur could have become if he didn't drop out of school, screwing college and getting pierced instead, wandering around on the streets with his guitar in his hand and a cigarette dangling between his lips, not giving a fuck about a world that doesn't care for him.

"I see," Arthur says slowly, green eyes glinting and his six earrings jingling when he turns his head aside lightly. He looks like a demon and Francois wonders how people can bury their beloved ones with the help of the Kirkland family business when one of the Kirkland brothers looks like a delinquent, one has absolutely no talent in consoling people, the third looks like an illegal minor and the two other members are hardly ever there. "You love him?"

"I do not," Francois says, but the words stick strangely to his throat and he needs to almost force them out and even then they linger on his tongue and make him afraid because oh, he loved once, loved in the real way, the painful way. It was the kind of burning love that weakened better men than him and when it was over, when he was called that dull, grey morning, ages ago, when they told him what had happened to her, the only things that remained were unspeakable grief and ashes.

(He has pulled himself together because he always has pulled himself together and the world didn't stop moving just because he suffered from an incredible loss. He has pulled himself together with Monique's help and his own strength but he thinks that there are certain things he will never do or see like he did or saw them…._before_.)

There are times Francois just feels incredibly exhausted. He sits down beside Arthur and stares at his fingernails for a moment. The surprise he feels is high when Arthur slowly, hesitantly places a hand on his elbow, just the barest of touches but way gentler than Arthur usually is, especially towards Francois. Being nice to each other has never been their strongest skill; they bite at each other like cat and dog, they know where it hurts and most of the time, both of them don't mind pressing greedy fingers into bleeding wounds. However, there are certain things that are never used as insults, come what may, and Arthur knows, probably better than most of the other people Francois knows, what it means to suffer from love and loss. Arthur is irritated and uncomprehending and angry towards other people; he snaps and barks and lashes out whenever he can. He doesn't believe in friendliness and in the depth of his heart he also doesn't believe he deserves it; he doesn't expect consolation and pity and he is so very bad at expressing those things to others even though he is a sensible person deep in his soul.

"Just stop moping," Arthur says and Francois appreciates the way he has with words, how careful and sensually he wields them and how much he goes into the feelings of those around him. Not. "Moping won't bring ye anywhere. Just get up your lazy French arse and tell him I….apologize for the way I behaved last night. It is not nice to call somebody a whore."

"Oh, but he is," Francois says and grins a little because he by all means can enjoy the biting irony and Arthur's humiliation. "At least he is a prostitute. We met in a club and well, I liked how he looked and we ended up in a hotel and then I asked him if he let me draw him."

"Oh bloody hell," Arthur mutters and for a moment there is a look of unusual horror on his face. It disappears only seconds later and gets replaced by a distinct scowl. "Whatever. Since when do you have to sleep with professionals anyways? Did the other people finally realize that they're sleeping with a stinky, smelly, bearded frog?"

"Don't be childish, Poisson, there is no need to be so jealous of my popularity," Francois replies smoothly and already feels better. "It was not nice of you to insult Alfred. And I can sleep with whomever I want. Alfred may work as a prostitute, but that doesn't make him less of a human than you are, Arthur I-hate-everybody-cannot-cook-and-have-absolutely-no-taste-of-fashion Kirkland."

"At least my bones don't creak like those of an old man whenever I move," Arthur grumbles and gets up, pulling out a silver cigarette case and a lighter from his right boot when he does so. He still wears the pirate costume in which he stumbled into Francois's flat the night before and it is crinkled and dishevelled now. He looks thoroughly amusing and Francois's mood improves considerably when he realizes that Arthur will have to walk through the town like this. It seems as if Arthur realized the same thing because the Brit only groans and lights a cigarette with what is left of his dignity.

"Where are you going?" Francois asks him because he honestly is interested. He never has not been interested in Arthur's life; he has felt a lot of different things about Arthur and not all of them have been positive, not at all, but disinterest has never been part of it.

Arthur just shrugs his shoulders. "Back," He says with a thin smile. "Scott's an idiot, but he is _my _idiot. There is something…_off_ when—" He interrupts himself and coughs lightly before taking a long drag of his cigarette; he has never learnt to talk about feelings properly when he is sober. Maybe this is the reason why he gets drunk so often, maybe he is only fleeing from something Francois cannot understand; Francois will never know because he will never ask and it is just alright this way. There are many unsaid, unshared things between them and it is alright. "Anyways. Go find yourself one of those long-legged models made of plastic and have a nice shag, maybe that'll light up your mood. You're ugly when you're moping."  
>"I'm beautiful when I suffer because I am always beautiful," Francois replies with a dramatic sigh and an elegant flip of his hair. Arthur only scoffs and mutters something Francois can't understand before leaving the flat, shutting the door with a loud bang.<p>

Francois stares at his wall for a long time after Arthur is gone. He smokes. He thinks of what he is willing to do and he thinks of an unfinished drawing in the drawer of his night table and of how fleeting luck is and how eternal and differently shaped love can be. He thinks of what things make heroes to heroes and cowards to cowards and decides that no French man should behave like a coward.

It doesn't take him long to get dressed and leave the flat with a very distinct aim in mind after that thought.


	8. Chapter 7

I'm so, so, so, so, so, so sorry that I needed so long for this chapter but I had some major problems with it and I am still not satisfied with it, but oh well. No Alfred in this chapter, but a little more insight in Arthur's and Scott's relationship.  
>Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and favs, they made me very, very happy 3<br>Enjoy!  
>****************<p>

_**Chapter Seven**_

When Arthur comes home, Scott waits for him, even though other people probably would not think he does. But Arthur knows Scott, knows him so, so well and doesn't understand him at the same time, and maybe this is why what is between them hurts so much sometimes.

He doesn't bother changing out of the costume, just shrugs off the jacket and tosses the hat away; it lands on the lamppost and Arthur silently congratulates himself for his good aim before wandering into the living room.

Scott stands in front of the window, playing the violin, and it's beautiful, it always is. Arthur resists the urge to sink down to his feet and listen to him like he did when he was a child. Instead, he drops onto the couch, places his boots on the arm rest of the couch and watches him, watches Scott's strong, carefully measured motions, the way his shoulders move when he strikes the bow across the violin. It's Arthur's instrument, actually, but Scott hasn't played the violin for a long, long time and so Arthur says nothing. He recognizes the composition very well, the sweet softness of it that always reminds him of his sister singing a lullaby for them every night.

The play ends and Scott lets the bow sink. Neither of them moves for a moment, then Scott turns around- he's always been braver, bolder than Arthur could ever be and there are moments he hates him for that- and looks at him.

"Remember when I taught you how to play?" He asks with a voice that is even rougher than usual and holds up the bow and the violin. Arthurs nods and frowns because he has no idea where Scott tries to go with that remark.

"You were awful in the beginning," Scott says with a grin and Arthur resists the urge to smash his face, but then Scott's expression almost invisibly changes into something softer and Arthur's breath inevitably goes faster because god damn, he loves this smile. "But then you got the hang out of it and now you're one of the most fucking talented musicians I've ever seen. It's a pity you don't wanna earn money with it, seriously."

"I like being in the family business," Arthur says and it doesn't quite come out as sarcastic as intended. Scott sighs and sits down on the edge of the sofa, facing him.

"Don't always run away whenever shit hits the fan between us, Arthur," Scott says and he has that crease between his brows that tells Arthur that he is serious. "You're not a child anymore and I'm sick and tired of it. What we need is to trust each other, that's pretty essential for every relationship, and trust also includes talking shit out instead of just vanishing into the fucking night without a word. Okay?"

"Okay," Arthur says and hates how quiet he sounds, hates it so much that he fumbles for a cigarette and lights it at once, taking a slow drag from it. Scott watches him silently for a moment, then he shakes his head and asks, "I guess it's pretty pointless to ask you where you've been?"

"Bars, more bars, costume shop, another bar, Francis, pissed off the damn frog, passed out on his carpet and came back," Arthur mutters and closes his eyes. "Play for me again?"

He can hear Scott's sigh, but then he starts to play the violin again and Arthur almost, almost feels at ease with his own life.

/

Francois starts searching at the club, because where else should he, where else could he begin? For a moment he realizes that he knows next to nothing about Alfred. He knows his smile, of course, the different shades of blue his eyes can have, the way his muscles move beneath his clothes, the way he moves when he is comfortable and the way he moves when he works, but he doesn't know where he lives, what he likes, what he doesn't like, what he does when he's not working or in Francois's atelier.

And suddenly, he wants to know these things.

But first of all, he wants to apologize for Arthur's insult and his own, quite lacking reaction where he should have defended Alfred in an instant, so he takes a deep breath and walks into the club.

In the cold light of day, the club looks quite unfamiliar. Where Francois remembered bright lights and crowded space are now empty spaces in the half-light and only one or two staff members. One of them notices him and walks over to him. Francois recognizes the young woman from his last visit and puts on his most charming smile.

"Good day, mademoiselle," He greets, still smiling. "I was hoping you could help me find someone."

"Someone?" She repeats and frowns a little, so Francois elaborates, "I was hoping you could help me find Alfred, to be precise."

"He only works in the evenings," She tells him and smiles apologetically before she adds, "And we don't give out the address of our boys and girls. I'm sorry."

"Look, it is really important," Francois says and tries not to sound impatient, still keeping up his smile. "I need to tell him something and it can't wait."

"Well, but it seems as if it has to wait," She says and there is steel underneath her sweet, soft voice that reminds him of Monique. "I'm sorry, but we have a certain policy here, I'm sure you understand."

"Yes," Francois answers tonelessly and straightens his shoulders. He knows when he has lost a battle and is wiser than trying to fight his way through. He is fairly sure that this would only result in making the staff even more reluctant to help him. "Yes, I do. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome, sir," She answers. He almost believes her.

/

"Tell me," Monique demands while putting on new lipstick that turns her lips into a fiery red color. "Tell me why this means so much to you. This is not Moulin Rouge, Francois, you cannot fall in love with a prostitute and expect him to love you back."

"In Moulin Rouge, the prostitute dies in the end," Francois reminds her and brushes her hair, smoothing down a particularly stubborn curl and pressing a kiss on the top of her head. Monique smiles at him through the mirror and takes a sip from the glass of wine he poured her.

"Exactly," She says, "So what do we learn from that? Stop dreaming something into this situation, Francois. You pay him for a certain service. I'm pretty sure he is used to being insulted and he didn't take what Arthur said that hard. It would surprise me if he hasn't heard much worse before."

"That is not the point," Francois protests and suddenly feels infuriated. "The point is that no matter what he does for a living, Arthur was very rude and I didn't do much to defend him and that wasn't right. I want to tell him that he is special to me, Monique. What is wrong with that?"

Monique sighs and takes another sip from her wine. "I worry for you," She finally says, "This whole story will bring you pain, hear my words."


End file.
